a cage.”
“I’m talking about protecting us,” Nisri said. “Some enemies you cannot outrun. They are a
flood that will overtake you. Your best hope is to let their tide break around the rocks of your
shores.”
“Tyranids,” Turk said. “You’re talking about your fight at the Absolomay Crush.”
Nisri said nothing, but Ballasra nodded.
“With respect,” Turk said, “by placing us on a landmark, you make it easier for rangefinders to
target us with artillery.”
“What artillery?” Nisri said, shaking his head. He tapped one of the auspex operators on the
shoulder. “Have the fleet’s cogitators found any sign of life yet? An army? Machines? Anything?”
The operator shook his head. “Auspex are clean so far.”
“There you have it,” Nisri said.
“And the transmission?” Turk asked. “Someone sent the mortis-cry. Someone died here.”
“The word of the mind witches,” Nisri said. A look of displeasure eclipsed his features. “Who
knows what they saw, or why they claim to have seen in. There’s no sign of life here and the dunes
stretch to the horizons. Even if an army hides here, no artillery can navigate the dunes easily. We
make our base on the plateau. That is my order.”
Turk bit his tongue, but it was difficult to keep it coiled in his mouth. He felt foolish; he knew
the artillery argument was weak the moment he raised it, but he was eager to dissuade Nisri from his
decision. An uncomfortable moment passed, long enough for everyone to exchange wary glances.
“As you wish,” Turk said finally, biting down on his words.
13
“Now,” Nisri said, barely acknowledging Turk’s bitter acquiescence, “on to the matter of the
patrols.”
3
Commissar Rezail navigated past the crates and boxes, the soldiers, and the packs of baying
dromads and muukali. Chaos had overtaken the plateau, but at least Rezail’s tinted oculars and
rebreather mask protected him against the dusty winds. Several kilometres away, transports and
troop carriers continued to labour skyward, further agitating the storm.
Tyrell, meanwhile, pointed out the various members of the expedition. The first man to earn
description was Duf adar Nab’l Sarish, a lanky man with ropes for muscles, dark brown leather for
skin, and an untamed beard and moustache. He wore a bandolier across his chest and two laspistols
at his belt. Sarish pulled at the reins of a mottled dromad that complained and snapped. With its long
neck and skinny legs, thick bristles of hair, humps and hooked snout, it was a creature alien to
Rezail’s experiences. Sarish gripped its reins tight and yanked the beast along.
“Duf adar?” Rezail asked. “That means sergeant, correct?”
“In a manner, but do not tell him that,” Tyrell responded. “Duf adar Sarish is a Sen’tach rider.
They are a very proud people, very stubborn. Sergeant means servant, yes? And they are no man’s
servant.”
“We are all servants of the Emperor,” Rezail said. “So the rank of Duf adar is equal to sergeant,
but nobody calls them that, correct?”
“Yes, commissar. Duf adar Sarish tends to our riding animals and teaches us how to shoot at full
gallop. He is an accomplished marksman.”
Rezail nodded. “Excellent, but there is one thing I find confusing. Tallarn was viral bombed,
yes? Sulphuric and rust deserts from the decomposing corpses of a million tanks.”
“Yes, commissar,” Tyrell responded, a faint smile on his lips. “You are wondering why our
people need pack animals? Tallarn is a wasteland, but our sheltered undergrounds are a vast network
of tunnels as great as any hive-world. We also have a sister planet, two systems away, Ibanna
Tallarn. The princes of the various tribes grow and train their herds there.”
“Why?”
“Livestock is the privilege of the truly wealthy, commissar. The princes have great estates on
Ibanna Tallarn, and they train their riders there.”
“Is this sister world of yours free of tribal friction?”
“No, commissar,” Tyrell said as he shook his head. “No place is free of it.”
4
Turk nodded to the commissar as Tyrell gave him the tour of the camp. The battalion commander
arrived at a small tent and entered without knocking. The stench of fuel and pack animals seemed
instantly forgotten, overtaken by the scent of oil and freshly crushed jasmine. The censers added a
pleasant haze, but the cot and regulation gear were otherwise standard issue.
“This is opulent,” Turk said, half-entering, making sure the tent flap remained open, to avoid
any suggestion of impropriety. He locked eyes with the woman who sat on the cot. She stood
slowly, uncertain and nodded. Her black hair curled at her shoulders and her thick, black lashes
swept him into her almond-shaped, black eyes. Red henna tattoos with florid curls covered the backs
of her hands and the lower half of her face. She wore loose robes, and a psychic hood made from
bulwark plates, haemorrhage valves, a focusing visor and sheathed cable bundles rested next to her,
to help focus her powers as the unit’s sanctioned mind witch.
14
“Colonel Nisri Dakar is a conservative man. It’s best I not be around the men, battalion
commander,” the woman said. “It wouldn’t be good for their morale.”
“Battalion Commander Turk Iban Salid. It is only fair you should know my name, Kamala
Noore.”
She nodded. “Of course. How may I serve a prince of the Banna?”
“Have you… sensed anything yet?”
“If a psyker died on this world, then the winds swept his cries away. I sense nothing. It’s as if
we’re alone in the most terrible way possible.”
“I’ll expect a full report later,” Turk said. He paused, saying nothing, but remaining at the door.
“Yes, battalion commander?” Kamala said, apparently uncertain how to act around Turk.
“If you were Banna, you would receive better treatment than this,” Turk said. “You are blessed,
an instrument of the Emperor.”
“And you are idol-worshippers according to the Turenag,” she whispered.
“The Orakle is the Emperor’s voice. We do not worship him. He is an astropath and he guides
us: a saint keeping us on the Emperor’s road.”
Kamala smiled and her face seemed to blossom. Turk almost gasped at the sudden and honest
beauty in her features.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but your men fear me as much as the Turenag. I’ve seen them ward
themselves when I pass.”
“Our fear is respect. You could have a place of honour among my people, a consort to the
Orakle perhaps?”
“And the blood spilt between our two people?”
“What the sand drinks, the Banna still remember. I won’t deny that.”
“As do the Turenag. Oh trust me, I know,” Kamala said. “It’s all I can see on everyone’s mind.”
“How close are we?” Turk asked softly, taking a step inside, the tent flap kept open by the
whisper of his fingertips. “How close to bloodshed?”
“Very close. I can taste iron on the winds. The men would gladly spill their enemies’ blood.”
“Who will start it?”
“It has started already,” Kamala said, her smile retreating. Her eyes seemed to fall away.
“What of you, then?” Turk asked. “Where do you stand? Should I fear you?”
Kamala smiled, the question anticipated. “You already fear me, sir,” Kamala said, each word
spoken with some pain. “But Banna or Turenag, I serve the 892nd. I serve the Emperor to my dying
thoughts.”
“Thank you,” Turk replied. “I’ll expect your report in an hour.”
5
Day One: Hour Nine.
The camp was only hours old and still in turmoil when the planet’s whispers turned into a steady
howl that drove thick drifts of sand across the dunes. The horizon was already a deep orange, a sure
omen of the storm’s power, and the fleet had stopped the supply drops for the night. The Guardsmen
didn’t have time to erect storm walls or to dig trenches; instead, they lashed down the supply
containers using gas-powered nail-pumps to secure the cargo netting before running for cover. The
dozen or so vehicles were already parked at the foot of the plateau, facing away from the storm, and
several platoons lay sheltered behind their treads.
Colonel Dakar tightened the kafiya around his face and adjusted his blast-oculars. He stumbled
towards the command Chimera, which had already extended its snort mast high into the dusty air. If
the storm buried the vehicle under a lake of sand, the collapsible snorkel tube would be the only
thing saving the crew from certain suffocation, and it would indicate to other Guardsmen where to
15
dig. Nisri grimaced and entered the coffin. Being buried was the worst part of these storms, if one
discounted being caught outside by the flaying winds. Nisri silently wished his own men good luck
tonight, and hoped the storm would take some of Turk’s soldiers.
6
Major Wahid Anleel trudged through the maze of cargo containers, pulling at locked doors and
cursing a dozen epithets against the storm. Anleel’s men, 1st Company, were scattered somewhere
in these stifling steel boxes. The storm, however, tore at his clothing and threw drifts of sand at his
feet. He needed shelter, and he needed it now.
Anleel spotted a raised snort mast in the near distance. All Tallarn regiment containers were
equipped with such devices, and functioned as emergency shelters. Unfortunately, the regiment’s
new quartermaster had only opened and unloaded a handful of containers before the storm had
overtaken them.
Anleel stumbled towards the cargo container. Half-buried metal crates lay scattered outside its
door, probably supplies thrown out to make room for more refugees inside. A black, carbonised
flash mark from a laspistol marked the demise of the door’s missing padlock: not the
quartermaster’s standard key, but Anleel was grateful for someone else’s initiative. He touched the
door and yelped at the nasty jolt of static electricity. His entire arm jerked and cramped. He shook
his hand, freeing it of the tingling.
He opened the door, and then quickly shut it against the protest of the winds outside and the
huddled men inside. With a grateful gasp, he removed his oculars and kafiya.
“You’re not one of us,” a voice said.
Anleel spun around and put his back to the door. He faced two-dozen men, all unfamiliar to him,
all hostile, all rival tribesmen belonging to the Turenag. Some had drawn their long scimitars.
“You’re not welcome here, dog,” a voice said from the darkness. “Leave while you have the legs
for it.”
“The storm outside—” Anleel said, stammering. “You cannot refuse a man protection from the
desert — Colonel Dakar and Battalion Commander Iban Salid… they shared salt.”
“That is why we’re letting you leave alive.”
Anleel studied their faces before pulling his oculars back down and yanking the kafiya over his
face. He backed out of the door, pushing against the drifts piled against the container, and vanished
into the howling storm. He was completely turned around, uncertain which direction offered safety.
His best hope was to stay near the cargo containers. He stumbled away, one arm against the
corrugated walls as a guide.
A flash of light pulsed by Anleel and was swallowed by the storm. He barely had time to turn
before a second laspistol beam caught him on the shoulder and cooked the wound. Anleel tried to
scream, but his kafiya slipped off his chin, and sand rushed in to choke him. Two more shots
punched him in the chest, both white hot, both cooking and cauterising flesh, muscle and bone.
Anleel collapsed face first into the sand. Two Guardsmen swathed against the storm grabbed
him by the armpits and pushed his body over the plateau’s edge. The wind and sand took care of the
rest.
7
Captain Ber’nam Toria of C Platoon was exhausted. He was searching for Major Anleel, who’d
failed to report back to his company. When Anleel was nowhere to be found among the containers,
Toria ventured down to the base of the plateau to search the vehicles. Foolish of him, he knew, but
16
the storm made vox chatter impossible, and now he was alone, lost and turned around, his compass
useless.
Toria’s legs were iron bundles. The fatigue settled in with a deep ache that burned at the wick of
his muscles. His shins sank into the loose sand, and it was growing harder to pull them out. He’d
heard something about the properties of the desert, how the sandstorm generated an electric charge.
He didn’t understand mechanical crafts, specifically why they affected his compass or the voxes, or
even friction, but he was told they did. So there he was, in sand drifts that seemed more liquid than
solid as they almost parted beneath his feet. It cost him more in energy to pull his feet out than it did
for his weight to push them down.
In the distance, over the howling winds, a crack of electricity snapped and lit the murky air.
Captain Toria had never seen lightning without storm clouds, and the notion that air could generate
a charge from nothing frightened him. He stumbled forward, crying out for someone, anyone. More
electricity bit at the air in the furthest glooms, coming from the same direction as the last two blasts
of lightning.
Toria hesitated. It was hard to think; the fatigue had numbed him, and even the storm’s sting was
too distant to wake him. He shook his head. “Think,” he muttered. “Why would lightning strike the
same area?” Something was attracting the electricity, something constant in the storm. It was his
only landmark. Static lightning be damned, Toria didn’t intend to drown in this dusty sea. He
lurched forward, burning through the last rush of adrenaline, forcing his feet to make one step after
another.
Too far, it was too far. Toria stumbled and fell forward. The sand swallowed his arms past the
elbows. His knees sank and dragged him down to his waist. His face hovered centimetres above the
sand, his strength fading, his leverage gone. He tried pushing up, but he sank further. He cried out,
but the winds smothered his voice. The struggle to be free pulled him down another deep centimetre.
He fought harder, panic overtaking reason, rational thought all but gone. Toria grunted and whined
like an animal facing death.
Another few centimetres, and Toria would be drinking sand. His limbs quaked at the exertion,
and he moaned softly.
“In or out, boy?” a voice asked, shouting over the wind. “I can push you in if you’ve
surrendered; make it easier for you to die.”
“Help,” Toria shouted. He could barely see the man out of the corner of his oculars, but he
struggled against the sand.
“Out it is.” Someone’s arm looped under Toria’s armpit and struggled to pull him up. “Work
